


Layers

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-25
Updated: 1999-09-25
Packaged: 2018-11-10 13:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11128296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: RayK has some stuff to think about.





	Layers

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).
    
    
    Layers 
    
    by Bone
    
    Disclaimer:  The due South characters belong to Atlantis Alliance.  Written
    for pleasure, not profit. For adult readers only, please. Not as explicit
    as most of my stuff - I'm just dipping a toe in the due South waters,
    trying to see if I can "hear" Kowalski. Thanks go to Aristide, Dawn P
    and Crysothemis for shouldering beta-reading duties. Comments are welcomed
    at
    
    Rating:  R for language and some slashy sexual tension.
    
    Pairing: Fraser/Kowalski
    
    Spoilers:  Mountie on the Bounty
    
    Summary:  RayK's got some stuff to think about.
    
    ***************************************
    
    Fraser got me good. Socked me. Clocked me. 
    
    Right in the kisser.
    
    Just like I told him to.
    
    Evens things up, I told him. I did it to him, he did it to me - now we're
    square. 
    
    'Course I hadn't counted on the Mountie-strength in that arm of his.
    Forget sometimes, just how scrawny I am compared to him. Usually, we
    balance pretty good - he's better at some stuff than me, and I'm better
    at some stuff than him. Okay, it might take me a few minutes to come
    up with some examples, but he never makes me feel like I'm not pulling
    my weight, like he's propping me up or anything. I got my own boxer/dancer
    wiry thing going on, but it's never going to top a Mountie. 
    
    Never going to top a Mountie.
    
    Nope, I'm never going to top a Mountie.
    
    Fraser packs a mean punch. And I don't even think he tried very hard,
    which makes it better or worse, I don't know which yet. I'm licking blood
    out of the corner of my mouth, wondering how come *now* he decides to
    just do what I tell him. Couldn't have been when we were up there getting
    our asses nailed to the wall, couldn't have been when I suggested we
    wait for backup. No, then it's all do what *he* says, Mr. Logical, Mr.
    Smarty-Pants. But I tell him to pop me one and WHAM, he just *does* it.
    
    Makes my blood boil, it does. I can't remember the last time anybody
    made me this mad. He's got me all worked up, so mad I'm having trouble
    remembering where all this crap started, cuz it feels like it's just
    been like this for way too long. I can't remember the last time I *felt*
    this much, good or bad, and I guess I oughta be grateful I'm not just
    zoning my way through life still, like I'd been doing. Not feeling much,
    not wanting to. 
    
    So I got a fat lip, which feels pretty rotten, which feels pretty good,
    because I'm *feeling*, see? I just wish it hadn't come from that hand.
    That hand attaches to that body, and that head, and that heart, and if
    I know Fraser (and I'm starting to wonder if maybe I don't), it hurts
    him as much as it hurts me. 
    
    Yeah, look at him there. I'm the one got spun, but he's the one who looks
    beat up. He's all red, and not just the jacket, but his skin, too. Red
    and mussed and untidy, which isn't like the Fraser I know at all, but
    maybe I don't know Fraser. Maybe this is a Fraser most of us don't get
    to see. 
    
    Which feels pretty good, in the middle of feeling pretty rotten. I just...
    I just... 
    
    I don't know how we got so out of hand. I don't know how we ended up
    here, in the dark, punching each other's lights out. And I can't figure
    out how come when I'm the one that got hit, he's the one who looks like
    he just took a jab to the whatsits...solar plexus. Looks like his collar's
    too tight, looks like he can't hardly breathe. 
    
    Looks like he surprised himself, just a little.
    
    He surprised the hell out of me. He's been doing it all along, so I don't
    know why I *keep* being surprised. 
    
    He surprised me. Irritated me. Bugged the shit out of me. 
    
    Protected me. Befriended me. Stirred me all up.
    
    Hell of a thing, huh.
    
    I went and fell for a Mountie. A guy. A straight, straight-up guy. Not
    just that, but my partner to boot. There's things you just don't do,
    and getting hot and bothered about your big Canadian partner while you're
    filling in for somebody else's life is one of them. 
    
    Cuz it's stupid. And dangerous. And if you're not careful, you end up
    getting in fights instead of getting naked. You end up shouting at somebody
    you'd much rather be swapping spit with. You end up cornered and taking
    fuck-all stupid risks when you damn well know better. 
    
    So it looks like we're ending something, just when it started to get
    interesting. 
    
    I did it. Aw, hell, we both did it. But I started it. Started feeling
    again, starting melting down a little, loosening up a little, started
    pushing him a little, trying to melt him down, trying to loosen him up.
    
    Might as well have asked Dief to listen to the radio. 
    
    He melted down all right. Let loose this unexpected sarcastic bastard
    he must've had lurking underneath all those layers of uniform all this
    time, only he never let anybody see. I guess I should be flattered. Not
    everybody gets the sharp edge of RCMP Constable Benton Fraser's tongue.
    Frannie doesn't get to see him lose his temper, and I think he'd resign
    before he lashed out at the Ice Queen. It's just me who gets that. The
    sharp tongue, the impatient looks. The tight-lipped, eyebrow-rubbing
    scowl. Even a pop to the mouth is better than that old Mountie face he
    pulls out for everyone else. 
    
    I wanted to peel him, a layer at a time. Get under all that polite, open
    a door for *him* sometime. Push him, melt him, see if I couldn't get
    his hands on me, or mine on him. Didn't want it to be a fist, though.
    Didn't want to push him so far he really started to piss me off, made
    me forget what I was doing in the first place and just left me there,
    mad as a wet hen, with sore knuckles, and he's got that damn "why? why
    now? why are you doing this?" look on his face. Didn't know I was going
    to make him come back out here and do it to me, planned-out-like and
    deliberate. 
    
    Me, who usually goes by the seat of his pants. I planned this. Made it
    a ceremony kind of thing. Fraser ought to get that. That ought to be
    something his methodical, logical brain can wrap itself around. Hell,
    it's like something his precious Inuits would do. Mark the occasion.
    Hail and farewell to the partnership of a stick-up-his-butt Mountie and
    an only-good-at-stuff-that-don't-matter cop. 
    
    It's just not at all what I wanted to have happen.
    
    Man, have I heard *that* song before.
    
    ***************************************
    
    All right, so it didn't turn out quite as awful as I'd expected, even
    if Fraser did risk my life in wildly bizarre ways. He saved my skinny
    ass about six times, too, so I guess I can forgive the freaky ways he
    did it. 
    
    Besides, he did that thing with his mouth, and even though he reverted
    back to that pissy combination of snarky and superior later, when I called
    him on it, I'm still licking traces of Mountie tongue off my lips, so
    don't talk to me about not getting excited. Although, I have to say,
    I wasn't excited. Not then. Neither was he. Or so he says. With Fraser,
    you never really know. He was probably calculating lung pressure or water
    temperature or some other damn thing while he was blowing me at entirely
    the wrong end, and I was mostly thinking I was going to die down there,
    and for what? For one of Fraser's damn quests for justice. 
    
    I got no excuse. I let him talk me into it. He got me going with that
    Edmund Fitzgerald story he told, sucked me right in with him. It's like
    listening to the Bible being read by Moses or something -- the man's
    got a gift. Next thing I know, we got the pedal to the metal, all the
    juice in the pitcher, barreling down the road for one last case. One
    last time. Then that's it. We're quits. 
    
    Except we're not. Cuz somewhere out there, between the "I can't swim"
    and the "I don't have a permit" crap, we each turned out to have something
    the other needed. I mean, there I was, handcuffed to that rail thingy,
    and here comes Fraser, like the Cavalry, right? Only with no horse. And
    no keys. And no lockpick. Okay, so he's not perfect. But I had the gun,
    didn't I? Not that a gun would've done me much good without him there
    to get it out and shoot it, and then find a way out, and make me go with
    him and pull me along with him and breathe for me...shit on a brick...
    he gave me his *air* down there. 
    
    *Now* I'm getting excited. Now that we're free and clear and floating
    on something that doesn't look as sturdy as a tanker, but is filled to
    the brim with Mounties, I'm not worried about a thing. If one Mountie
    can do all the shit Fraser can, imagine what a whole platoon of them
    could do. Sounds like a good reason to keep diplomatic relations...um...
    diplomatic. 
    
    All I know is that we're neither of us taking the transfers, and we're
    still... whatever we were. Partners, I guess. Friends, I think. 
    
    Still dancing around each other a little bit, still a little testy. But
    we do good when we're not talking, I figured that much out. Got the bad
    guy with a few hand signs and some eye contact. Can't beat that with
    a stick. So maybe there's a lesson in there somewhere. 
    
    I could be all for not talking. I could be all for him doing that thing
    with his mouth again, only without the fucking frigid water and the whole
    "I'm gonna *die* down here" part. I could be all over that. 
    
    Good luck getting the Mountie to shut up, though. Never heard a man who
    talks so much, about all the stuff that don't amount to a hill of beans.
    But getting him to talk about real stuff, important stuff, well, it's
    like pulling teeth. 
    
    He's an exercise in frustration, he really is.
    
    In all kinds of ways.
    
    ***************************************
    
    I guess if you're a Mountie this looks pretty good. They got tents, and
    bedrolls and a grill thing for cooking. Mountie heaven. Even Thatcher
    has stripped off her outer layer, and Turnbull looks like he might have
    finally found his element. And I think we'll be lucky to get Lt. Welsh
    back to Chicago - last time I saw him he was trying on somebody's red
    serge. 
    
    Me, I'm just happy to be on solid ground, which still doesn't feel as
    solid as I'd like. "You've got your sea legs, Ray," Fraser said when
    he saw me swaying on the grass. Bully for me. Can I have some land legs,
    please? I'll use them more, I swear. 
    
    Hot food tasted good, and I'll never take dry jockey shorts for granted
    again. And if the tent's a little musty, and the ground a little hard,
    it's still all better than anything else I've had going for the last
    few days, so I'll take it. 
    
    Except...
    
    Except...
    
    It's dark in here. I don't mean dark like you need a nightlight dark.
    I mean dark like you can't see a hand in front of your face dark. Dark
    like you open your eyes so wide they hurt and you still can't see anything.
    So it feels like the tent's right there on top of me, waiting to smother
    me in moldy canvas. Feels like I'm back in that air vent on the boat,
    ship, tanker, whatever, wondering what the fuck Fraser would consider
    emergency enough to qualify for use of more than one stinking waterproof
    match. 
    
    Okay, I'm starting to breathe funny, and that just makes the tent feel
    even smaller, not to mention smellier, and that's it, that's all she
    wrote, I'm tangled up and swearing and trying to get out of the thing
    without whimpering and finally, *finally*, I'm breathing open lake air,
    and grass, and it's not as dark out here as it was in there. There's
    stars and everything, and it looks sort of peaceful. All those Mounties,
    all snug in their tents, while visions of pemmican dance in their heads.
    
    I think about splashing some water on my face; I'm all sweaty, but the
    thought of putting my face in water again gives me the shakes, so I just
    wipe down with the bottom of my t-shirt and take a look around. Over
    there at the edge of the camp I can see a white shape that turns out
    to be Diefenbaker when I get closer. And next to him (where else would
    Dief be?) is Fraser, stretched out his bedroll, out on the open ground.
    
    "Ray?"
    
    Of course he can see me. Probably heard me coming all the way across
    the camp. Could probably smell my breath and tell me what I had for dinner.
    Could probably taste me and... 
    
    "Yeah," I say.
    
    "Is everything all right?" he asks, and I wonder if he's been asleep
    at all, cuz he sounds like 10 AM, not middle of the night. 
    
    "Sure, fine," I tell him, looking down to see if my hands have stopped
    shaking. Pretty much. Good enough even to pass Mountie inspection. 
    
    He doesn't say anything more, but he scoots over and opens up the blanket
    he's lying on, so now it's a nice picnic square, perfectly fine for two
    people to lie down on in the dark. Perfectly fine. I wait just long enough
    for him to start squirming around, just long enough for him to *think*
    about it, then I plop down beside him, tug Dief over next to me and stretch
    out, sandwiched between them. 
    
    Perfectly fine.
    
    Finally perfect.
    
    "Was the tent not to your liking?" he asks me. I see we're back to polite
    again. Hard as the sarcastic bastard was to get along with, I think I'd
    still rather have him yapping at me than have this wall of Canadian courtesy
    between us. Especially since we're out here by ourselves, in the dark,
    horizontal. But I appreciate the effort, since I don't have thing one
    to start a conversation with. 
    
    "Tent's fine. Just... too... I needed some air," I stumble over all the
    words, not just some of them, but he doesn't seem to mind. He's started
    a sentence or two he couldn't finish himself in his time. 
    
    "I understand," he says.
    
    I turn to look at him. In the dark, he's all in black and white, but
    I can see that his eyes are open and that he's looking at me. Yeah, he
    probably does understand. He's out here too, isn't he? 
    
    "So, Fraser..." I'm talking low. We're not really close enough for anyone
    to hear unless they're listening, which, why would they be? But if they
    all hear like Fraser hears, well, let's just say I'm not taking any chances.
    
    "Yes, Ray?"
    
    "Have you done anything like that before?" I whisper.
    
    "Like what, Ray? I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific," he says,
    all reasonable and calm. 
    
    I feel my nerve endings start to tingle. I already want to pop him one.
    At least I think that's what I want to do. Either that or lay one on
    him. It's always one or the other, and sometimes both. 
    
    "The underwater stuff, finding your way out, holding your breath, all
    that." 
    
    He pauses. "Well, of course, it's standard training procedure to -" 
    
    "That's not what I asked, Fraser."  Geez, he's annoying.
    
    "I'm trying to answer your question, Ray," he says, and I hear that little
    sarcastic edge come in his voice. Oh yeah, that's what I'm after, a little
    real Fraser. Only I don't want to go back to snipping and sniping; I
    want to get under all that, see if anything else comes out. 
    
    "So have you?" I ask again, still just whispering.
    
    "Technically, no," he finally says.
    
    I nod. "You're good under pressure," I tell him, and he gives me this
    surprised look. Guess he wasn't expecting that. "Don't let it go to your
    head or nothing." 
    
    "No, I won't," he says, distracted.  "Thank you."
    
    "What for?"
    
    He doesn't answer.
    
    "What for, Fraser?" Damn, I want him to say it. I have no idea why he's
    thanking me - for the compliment? For not transferring? For going along
    with all his hare-brained schemes? 
    
    "For helping to apprehend some dangerous criminals," he says, turning
    on his side to face me. "You put aside your reservations for the greater
    good, and I -" 
    
    "That's not why I did it," I cut in.
    
    That shuts him up. I shift around a little, so I'm on my side, too, facing
    him. We just look at each other for a minute, feel all that quiet settle
    around us. Up against my back, Dief is warm, and the space between me
    and Fraser feels warm, too, like we're filling it up just by being there.
    
    Fraser clears his throat, and it sounds too loud. I lift my head, but
    I don't hear any stirring in the row of tent cocoons. 
    
    "Then why?" he asks.
    
    Do I really have to tell him? Do I have to open my mouth and say it?
    I did it for you, you doofus. Cuz you sort of asked me to, even though
    you never did really come right out and ask. What else was I going to
    do? Stay there and let you go off by yourself? Get hurt or dead or something
    without me? I can't see that happening. Can you? 
    
    Give me one good reason, I told him. Didn't tell him he didn't have to
    say anything. Didn't tell him just walking up to me was good enough.
    Didn't tell him that's all he ever has to do. 
    
    There's more to life than dying. And it's stretched right out here beside
    me. 
    
    I sit up, startling Diefenbaker, who huffs a little then curls up at
    our feet. "I've got something of yours," I say, taking one more cop look
    around the camp. 
    
    "Something of mine?" he asks, and unless my hearing's as bad as my eyesight,
    there's a little catch in his voice. 
    
    He makes like he's going to sit up, too, but I put a hand on his chest
    and push him back down, and follow him and before I can think about it
    good enough to decide it's a really bad idea, I'm putting my mouth over
    his and puffing a breath into him. His mouth's hot, and inside, when
    I dart my tongue in, he's wet and slippery. 
    
    And then it's done. I'm sitting up again, licking his taste off me again,
    wondering where I got the guts up to do that, and wondering which layer
    of Fraser I'll see now. 
    
    I don't even look at him, but maybe I licked up some Mountie peripheral
    vision or something, because I can feel him next to me, like I'm seeing
    him, even though I know I'm not since I'm staring straight forward, looking
    out over the lake. But I can feel the breath he takes, feel him sit up
    so his shoulder's pushed against mine. 
    
    "Have you ever done that before?" he asks me, that Bible voice of his
    low and a little rough. 
    
    "You'll have to be more specific," I tell him before I think better of
    it, and that gets an eyebrow rub out of him. 
    
    "Have you?" he asks again, ignoring my poke at him.
    
    "Technically, no," I say.
    
    He nods.
    
    "You're good at it," he says, which just flips my lid.
    
    That's it? That's the extent of the Fraser reaction to me filling his
    lungs and licking him? 
    
    When I turn to face him, he's close. Really close. So close I could probably
    look up his nostrils if I wanted, but I don't because he's leaning in,
    nudging against me, putting his mouth on mine again, but not blowing
    in me this time. There's no air this time. I'm not sure there's air anywhere,
    not in this whole great white north. I think we'll live on spit instead,
    grow gills and breathe through our ribs so I never have to let go of
    his mouth. 
    
    I get distracted by that tooth of his that sticks out a little, and when
    I go back to it, licking all around it for about the fifth time, he makes
    a sound way back in his throat and pushes hard against me, and ups the
    ante a little by putting his arms around my back. I let him, lean in
    a little, let him use that Mountie power for good. 
    
    He thinks I'm good at this. Okay, so maybe I'm blind as a bat. Maybe
    I lose my temper sometimes and eat shit that's bad for me and have this
    weird aversion to things that could get me killed. *This* he thinks I'm
    good at. He probably arrived at that conclusion through some half-assed,
    convoluted Mountie-logic. 
    
    I don't care. Don't care a bit. Don't give a rat's ass what makes him
    think so, just so long as he does. Besides, if I told him it was just
    my gut that brought me here, that it was just instinct, he'd probably
    get all pissy on me again. 
    
    And I'd hate to have to pop that mouth again. 
    
    There's lots better things I can think of to do with it.
    
    ***************************************
    
    The end.
    


End file.
